


Catharsis

by charis2770



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bottom Natasha, Canes, Catharsis, Clint is a good friend, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, F/F, Kink Negotiation, Nastasha has a hard time letting go, Spanking, Top Maria, paddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 03:50:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10756113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charis2770/pseuds/charis2770
Summary: Maria and Natasha have been lovers for a while, and enjoying exploring their kinks together, but have only recently moved in together. Maria knows that at some point, Nat is going to need more from her than just kinky foreplay. She even knows what signs to look for. Apparently, the night they have their first dinner guest in their new place is that time...





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [genderfluidgarfield](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=genderfluidgarfield).



> This fic is a commission for my awesome follower, genderfluidgarfield, who has been amazing at communicating and talking about what they wanted out of this story. I only hope I've managed to halfway deliver! Different people have different needs and desires when it comes to BDSM, and sometimes those needs can vary depending on what a person needs from one day to the next. Talking about all of your needs with your partner is so important. Natasha's not maybe the best at talking about feelings, but her lover manages to understand her anyway.
> 
> This fic is not a part of my other Avegngers movieverse AU, but is a stand-alone fic. You can find out more about me, my other blogs, my mission and other stuffs at:
> 
> Charis2770.tumblr.com

The door’s alert chimes at 7:30, right on time, which is a little surprising considering who’s expected. She’s still in the middle of making a last-minute check of the living area, making sure everything looks right. They’ve only combined their living spaces into one this week, and even though her lover isn’t one to hold on to a lot of possessions (this is a habit Maria has always found a little bit sad, but has to admit to herself that it did make combining their things a lot easier), it was still an adjustment in the placement of things, in making room, redecorating a little so that the space was  _ theirs _ and not just hers anymore with another person inside it. It’s their first  _ official _ dinner guest, and an important occasion, at least to Maria. She wants everything to be just-so.

 

Natasha turns her head to look over her shoulder as she moves to answer the door, rolling her eyes at Maria’s fussing.

 

“Ria,” she says, smirking a little, “it’s only Clint.”

 

“I’m aware of that,” Maria says back, outwardly calm even though she still picks up a pillow off the sofa that has been knocked sideways and rights it. And probably this isn’t a big deal to Natasha. She and Clint have been friends for a long time.  _ Best _ friends, and have been through more together than probably any two other people on the face of the planet. Possibly several planets. That’s what makes this so much more important than Natasha seems to realize. The deadly beautiful spy is still a little bit twitchy about moving in, even though they’ve been lovers for almost a year. That she is willing to invite her best friend over to share dinner with them in  _ their _ quarters means she’s ready to acknowledge that this is real. 

 

The door slides open with a soft hiss to reveal Agent Clint Barton...Hawkeye...leaning on one elbow in the doorway. He grins at Natasha and steps inside. His eyes quickly track over the things in the living room, the small dining area to the right and kitchen beyond it, the hallway leading back to the bedroom, bathroom and office. It’s a habit he and Natasha share; taking stock of a room when they enter it, noting points of entry or egress, cataloging anything in the space that could be used as a weapon in a pinch, checking for enemies. Even when both of them know for certain that a place is safe, it’s just habit. Training. Maria doesn’t mind, even if she sometimes wishes Nat could feel safe enough to  _ not _ do it. She understands, as she does the same thing any time she enters a room with which she’s not familiar, or a new situation. She knows it’s kept them both alive more than once. 

 

“Agent Barton, welcome,” she says, straightening to greet him. His lopsided grin widens.

 

“I think it’s probably okay for you to call me by my first name,” he shoots back. “I mean, we’ve practically seen each other naked.”

 

It takes a second to track this logic, but being familiar with the way the man’s mind works, both from her own associations with him and the stories Natasha has told her, Maria deduces that he means they’ve both seen  _ Natasha _ naked, he and the former Russian spy having been casual lovers on more than one occasion throughout their friendship. The thought doesn’t bother her. She knows they’ve never been more than very good friends, and that the times they’d shared their bodies had been about comfort, or blowing off steam, or a need to remind themselves that they were still human. She’s had many occasions to be grateful for it, in fact, since he’s been a big help many times since the night Natasha had revealed to her….certain needs….several months ago, about which Barton is not just cognizant but very skilled. When your lover is a superhero and needs you to meet those particular sorts of needs, there’s a bit of a learning curve, and Clint has always been more than happy to help. Natasha hasn’t turned to Clint for those things since the man had taken Phil Coulson’s collar not long before she and Maria started dating. Maria laughs at Clint. Sometimes Hawkeye’s logic….well, isn’t, but it’s part of his charm.

 

“I hope Italian’s okay,” she says, turning towards the kitchen to check on the lasagna in the oven and open the bottle of Merlot sitting on the countertop to let it breathe.

 

“Sounds great,” replies Clint, making himself at home on the couch. “Smells good too.”

 

“Thanks. Nat, could you help me with the salad?” Maria asks, as she notices Natasha moving to drop down next to their guest. Natasha frowns and rolls her eyes again.

 

“Just throw some lettuce in the damn bowl, Ria,” she says dismissively, plopping down next to her friend with the almost eerie, feline grace only she is capable of. “Barton’s not picky, and neither am I.”

 

Maria raises an eyebrow. The phrasing is more than a little rude, considering the nature of their relationship, one which Natasha herself had requested in the first place. Clint notices too, and they share a look. She decides not to make an issue of it, though she’ll remember to ask Natasha about it later, when they don’t have company. It could be nothing more than nerves, because Natasha has never done cohabitation before, and she’s still trying to fit it around the shape of herself, but it could be more. She remembers their conversation clearly. Natasha had reluctantly and, with more than a little embarrassment, explained to her that sometimes she needed more out of their kinky play than its sexy aspects. That sometimes, the stress of her job, the horrors she saw, and the weight she carried on her shoulders would build up to a point that she found it hard to let go on her own. Maria had readily agreed to help with this, if Nat would let her, but there had been a catch. Nat had admitted that, after so many years of being trained  _ not _ to talk about her own feelings, she found it nearly impossible to just  _ ask. _ Maria knows now that when Natasha starts to act like and exceptionally bitchy, bratty teenager, it’s time for her to step up. Nat had tried to apologize, but Maria had assured her that she accepted Natasha as she was, and didn’t want or need to try to change her.

 

Maria wonders if this is just nerves, or if it’s one of those times. Natasha had returned from a mission in Afghanistan a couple of days ago looking tense and edgy. She’d shaken it off within a day of being back home. At least, Maria had thought so. Now, she’s not so sure. Pursing her lips in thought, she finishes preparing the salad herself, then takes the lasagna out of the oven while Clint and Natasha sit side by side on the sofa, Nat’s legs thrown over Clint’s lap while they reminisce about some crazed mission many years ago. 

 

Her concerns over Natasha’s mental state grow when, after supper is on the table, the food served and wine poured, Nat downs her glass of Merlot a lot faster than usual and reaches for the bottle. Especially since they’d discussed playing later, after Clint leaves, earlier in the day. Maria’s hand closes around the wine and holds it down firmly.

 

“One glass is enough if you still want to play later, Nat,” she says softly. It’s not an order. If Natasha has decided she’d rather indulge a little and forego the scene, that’s perfectly fine, she just wants to know about it. Natasha glares at her.

 

“What are you now, my fucking mother?” she snaps. She does, however, take her hand off the bottle. It is Maria’s insistence that she will not participate in an kind of impact play with her lover if Natasha has had more than one drink. Natasha may find it a little frustrating, but this kind of bedroom play had been new to Maria up until a few months ago, and she’s simply not willing to risk her partner’s safety in the case of her judgment being compromised in any way. It  _ is _ true that the Black Widow has a rather astonishing tolerance for alcohol, but her sense of self preservation does become more than a little unnerving when she’s even slightly inebriated. As in, it takes a flying leap out the window and straight to hell. 

 

It gets worse from there. Natasha becomes more sarcastic as dinner progresses. Clint is aware of it too. He and Maria continue to exchange looks across the table. She’s thankful that the archer knows Natasha so well, and understands her, because at this point if their guest was anyone else, Maria would be absolutely mortified by her lover’s behavior. Clint only smiles and shakes his head when Maria gives him an apologetic look. When Nat refuses to help clear the table after dessert, dismissively telling Maria to just leave it all and worry about it later, pushing back from the table and sauntering back to the living room, Clint gets up to help instead, taking the opportunity to join her in the kitchen. He leans in close as they set dishes in the sink. Were he and Natasha anyone other than who they are, his familiarity and closeness might set Maria on edge a little bit, but they both know Nat has very good hearing.

 

“Something obviously happened in Afghanistan that got to her,” he murmurs in a low voice. Maria nods.

 

“She’s been acting fine until tonight. I’m so sorry you had to see this,” whispers Maria, her shoulders tense with frustration. 

 

“Has this happened before?” he asks curiously. “I mean, do you understand what she…”

 

Maria nods.

 

“She managed to tell me what it means when she acts like this,” she murmurs. Clint relaxes and sighs in relief.

 

“She really trusts you then. I’m glad.”

 

“I’m glad too, but this is the first time it’s actually happened. I really wanted tonight to go well, and I’m not sure I understand why she couldn’t have waited until our guest left to start acting like such a brat,” sighs Maria. Clint, however, looks thoughtful.

 

“I think I do,” he muses very softly. They do the dishes with a bit more rattling and clinking of china than strictly necessary. “It’s  _ because _ it’s never happened before. I think she  _ wants _ me to know where her head’s at. Can’t tell for sure whether she’s asking me to clue you in...or something else. Let me guess. She managed to let you know her tells when she needs the….”

 

“Catharsis,” offers Maria in a whisper.

 

“Yeah,” agrees Clint, setting down the lasagna pan with a bang, “but  _ not _ how much  _ getting _ her there was gonna take?” Maria’s hands still in the soapy water of the sink as realization sets in.

 

“Damn,” she mutters. 

 

“And the communication award of the year goes to...someone who isn’t Nat,” chuckles Clint quietly. Maria turns to him suddenly.

 

“I really do  _ not _ want to impose on you in any way, and please feel free to say no, because I don’t know whether your...how Phil would feel about this, and I’d never want you to do anything that would step on the toes of that relationship, but…”

 

“Would you like me to stay?” he asks. 

 

“You don’t mind?”

 

“Not even a little bit. And Phil won’t mind either. It’s Natasha. He loves her too. I’ll do whatever you need.”

 

“I have no idea what that might be at this point, but I think we can manage to play it by ear,” whispers Maria. 

 

“Ooh, improv’s one of my best things,” he grins.

 

“Besides,” Hill continues, “she may not push things that far.” Clint looks at her with raised eyebrows.

 

“You  _ have _ met her, right?”

 

****

 

The final straw isn’t long in coming. Clint and Maria join Natasha in the living room. She’s turned on The Walking Dead, which she and Clint really like but Maria doesn’t, and Nat knows this. It’s just another sign that things are very, very off with her lover, because Natasha is generally more considerate of Maria’s feelings than this. Maria sighs.

 

“Nat, could you switch it to something else? We’re not really going to be watching anyway, since that’s not why Clint’s here, and you know I don’t like this show.”

 

Natasha turns the volume up a little. Clint and Maria exchange yet another telling glance.

 

“You wanna talk about what happened in Afghanistan?” asks Clint lightly. Natasha’s face goes blank for a moment, her blue eyes devoid of any emotion whatsoever. It sends a chill up Maria’s spine. She recognizes the look. It’s the one the Black Widow wears on her face when she has to kill someone. In a flash, between one blink and the next, Maria sees with horror that Clint is on the floor, Natasha straddling him with her elbow to his throat, leaning down close to hiss in his face.

 

“Don’t you fucking analyze me, Barton.”

 

Clint, despite his precarious position, looks completely unfazed. It’s obvious from the way his face is reddening that he’s having a little trouble getting enough oxygen, but he remains completely calm, his body relaxed and his face expressionless.

 

“Never have, don’t plan to start now,” he wheezes. “Ease back, Romanoff. It’s okay.”

 

“No,” snaps Maria loudly, standing up as she slaps the palm of her hand down hard on the surface of the coffee table. “It is  _ not _ okay. I have had enough. Natasha, release him immediately. That is an order,” she adds coldly when Natasha looks up at her from under tousled red curls with narrowed eyes. Those eyes widen a fraction, and Nat obeys her slowly, removing her elbow from Hawkeye’s throat (he gulps in air gratefully) and straightening until she’s sitting upright on his abdomen. Maria snatches the remote and clicks the television off, then steps over and plunges a hand into her lover’s wonderful, silky red hair. Making a fist, she drags Natasha off of Clint and to her feet. She knows Nat lets her do it. Maria Hill is no slouch, and has years of martial arts and hand to hand training, but the Black Widow is more than her match, and though she’s a little shorter, outweighs her by a bit due to muscle mass alone. Internally, Maria breathes a sigh of relief. If Natasha really didn’t want this, she wouldn't acquiesce to being manhandled. Clint scrambles backwards so he’s not lying sprawled under their feet and waits patiently to see what she’ll ask of him. Quick strategic thinking is one of the gifts which has gotten Maria where she is in her life, so she doesn’t hesitate.

 

Marching around to the back of the sofa with her girlfriend in tow, she shoves Natasha against it. Nat’s tense, her body almost vibrating with nerves. Without letting go of her hair, Maria leans close so that her lips brush the shell of Natasha’s ear.

 

“I hear you, lover, loud and clear,” she whispers. “I’ve asked Clint to stay. If that’s not okay, say so now and I’ll ask him to leave.” She pauses to give Nat a chance to answer, but Natasha bites her lip, stiff and unhappy, indecision and uncertainty in her eyes. “I understand what you need, but this is the first time I’ll be trying to give it to you. I know you trust him, and so do I.” She’s trying to let Nat know without having to break up the flow of what’s beginning to unfurl that it’s really okay for Clint to be here, that Maria’s not threatened by his presence and doesn’t think it means Nat doesn’t trust her. She lets out a quiet sigh of relief when Natasha’s stiff muscles relax, thankful that they’ve been together long enough for the message to be heard. Natasha nods as well as she can with her hair held in the vise of Maria’s fist.

 

Maria reaches around, sliding her fingers under the hem of Natasha’s shirt to graze lightly over silky skin, which pebbles slightly at her touch. She flicks open the top button of Natasha’s pants, then slowly tugs the zipper down. Hooking her thumbs over the waistband of both pants and the black silk thong she knows Nat’s wearing under them, she pushes them down over her lover’s perfect, round ass and hips, down to her knees, leaving her bared to the room. With a gentle shove to the middle of her back, Maria forces Natasha over the back of the plush, dark blue sofa.

 

“I’ve figured out exactly what I want from you, Clint,” she says, locking eyes with the archer, who is watching them with interest, though she can see the concern for his friend hidden in the look as well. 

 

“Whatever you need,” he says easily.

 

“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to get in front of the sofa and hold her hands. I don’t really feel like bothering with restraints. She’s been a bitchy little brat in front of a guest, so she’ll be punished right here, right now, in front of him. And she’ll have to look him in the eyes too, because,” Maria brings her hand down with a sharp smack on Nat’s naked ass, “you’re not allowed to close them. Hold her now, please, while I go and choose what to punish her with.”

 

She turns on her heel and marches back towards their bedroom, knowing she can trust Clint to do as she’s asked. Acting as Natasha’s restraint system, Hawkeye will be able to see her face and watch her eyes the entire time, and he’ll be able to tell Maria when Natasha has gotten what she needs. In the bedroom, she opens the closet door and drags out a large duty bag they’d turned into their toy bag many months ago. She ignores all of the sex toys. Tonight isn’t about foreplay or sexual desire for Natasha. Maria realizes as she picks up and discards several of their lighter impact play implements that she’s actually grateful to Nat for waiting until tonight to give Maria her signals that she needs a cathartic scene. If Clint wasn’t here, Maria isn’t sure she’d know what to do, or how far to go, and more than anything she wants to be able to give her lover what the other woman needs. Clint Barton is the only person in the world aside from Nick Fury who knows what that is, and Maria is absolutely sure she’d feel more than a little awkward going into this scene with the Director on hand to witness it. 

 

Shaking off these thoughts, she selects three of their more intense implements from the bag. Natasha won’t want or need any warm-up tonight. Even though they haven’t done anything quite like this before, Maria knows this instinctively. Warming Natasha up into a scene pretty much guarantees that she’d be too blissed out on endorphins to get anything close to the catharsis she’s assured Maria that she sometimes needs. She takes a medium-sized paddle made of zebrawood. It’s a surprisingly pretty toy, considering its purpose; the wood is a warm, marbled honey brown and golden color, sanded and sealed to a satiny finish. The wood is quite dense, capable of making an impressive impact. Then, because paddles have a tendency to cause numbness if used for too long, she selects a slender, short cane made out of polyurethane with a leather-wrapped grip, and finishes off her choices with a sturdy leather strap made of two pieces of leather sewn together and riveted to a carved wooden handle. With them tucked under her arm, she returns to the living room. Natasha is just as she’d left her, with the exception that now Clint is sitting comfortably on the floor in front of the couch with Natasha’s hands held firmly in his. They’re not saying anything, but Maria can still see that volumes are being spoken by their eyes alone.

 

_ Don’t let go _ , from Natasha, and,  _  Don’t let me down. _

 

_ I won’t, _ from Clint, and,  _ I got you. _

 

Natasha’s tension and anger and snark have vanished, to Maria’s great relief. She’s not  _ completely _ relaxed, but then small tremors in her legs and the flexing of the muscles in her bared backside and her arms only has an air of the nerves that come with waiting, nothing more. Natasha trusts her to do this. The realization brings with it a swell of emotion that tightens her throat and stings the corners of her eyes. And with Clint here to help, Nat trusts them both to know when to  _ stop. _ She swallows past the lump of tenderness and love clogging her throat and blinks back the emotion from her eyes. Stiffening her spine and setting her jaw with determination, Maria marches  _ back  _ into the room, propping the things she’s chosen against the backrest of the sofa beside Nat, where she can see them if she turns her head, and where Clint can see them easily and answer the question in her raised eyebrow that Natasha can’t see. He nods, approving her selections. Her fingers close around the polished wood of the handle of the strap. She closes her eyes for a moment, letting out her breath on a slow exhale, clearing her mind of everything but the dangerous, beautiful, complicated woman she’s come to love so much. Natasha has demons no human being should ever be asked to carry on her own. Maria knows this, just as she knows she’ll never truly understand the things Nat has been through. That she’s even close to a whole person is both a miracle and a testament to how strong she is. Most people who don’t know the Black Widow would consider her a cold and brittle person, but the very few she calls friends know this is far from the case. Were it so, Nat would likely have broken under the pressure long ago. She’s not really unlike one of her best friend’s bows, really; taut and deadly when she needs to be, but supple and flexible, able to bend under extreme pressure without snapping.

 

This is one of the ways she bends when she’s been drawn too tightly for too long. Until she’d met Maria, there had been only two people in her life that Natasha had ever trusted to take away the burden of some of her pain. Both, Maria knows, men Natasha trusted also enough to kill her if she ever became too dangerous to be allowed to exist. That Nat trusts  _ her _ with this is almost terrifyingly humbling. She doesn’t want to fail Natasha. No, she  _ will not _ fail her. When Maria moves to stand behind her, Natasha raises her head.

 

“Ria, I…” There’s regret in her tone of voice, self-recrimination and apology.

 

“Nat, stop,” Maria interrupts, laying her hand on the small of Natasha’s back. “You told me ahead of time what to look for. I’m not upset about tonight. I’m glad you wanted Clint to be here too. I won’t have to worry as much about being sure you get what you need. Just...let me take care of you.” It must be the right thing to say, because Nat relaxes, almost slumping over the back of the sofa in relief, her body going lax in surrender and a beautiful show of trust.

 

She touches the leather to the bare skin of Natasha’s naked bottom, sliding it over the lush curves and down her thighs. Nat sighs, and Maria draws her arm back. She bites her lip against the instinct to start slow and easy, the way they’ve always done it before, against her instincts not to hurt her lover too much. She  _ knows _ that’s not what the other woman needs right now,  but it’s harder than she’d expected it to be. Still, her lover’s needs and the trust she’s putting in Maria are more important than her own sensibilities. She pulls her arm back further, and when she swings, she puts her back and hips into the stroke. The sturdy leather impacts Natasha’s soft flesh with an almost deafening CRACK. God, it’s so  _ loud _ . A bright red band blooms across the middle of Natasha’s ass. Her deadly, exquisite body stiffens, head tossing back with a hiss through her teeth. Her arms jerk involuntarily, but Clint’s fingers tighten on her wrists and hold firm. She may usually be the archer’s superior in straight-out hand to hand combat, but Clint’s arms, accustomed to the 100 pound plus pull of his bow, are more than a match for her now. She can no more escape his grasp than she could sprout wings and fly. Maria waits a few seconds, then lashes the strap down across Nat’s backside again, just below the first stroke. She takes her time, takes care to aim each blow, to make sure the end of the strap doesn’t wrap around her hip. Natasha doesn’t make a sound beyond the occasional soft grunt or hiss through her clenched teeth. She may  _ need _ what Maria is giving her, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for her to  _ accept _ it, or to make it easy for her girlfriend to give it to her. 

 

By the time Natasha’s skin is a dark, angry red color from the crest of her ass down to the tops of her thighs, Maria is breathing a little harder and starting to wonder if she’s crazy to even try to break through the walls of a woman who is trained to withstand actual torture without breaking. She sets the strap down and reaches for the paddle, a tiny frown of frustration creasing her brow, but Clint catches her eye. His face is unperturbed, and he smiles encouragingly, giving her a nod that seems to say she’s doing fine. Okay then. 

 

She hefts the paddle in her hand, settling its grip more comfortably. It’s not terribly big or heavy, just about the right size to cover most of Nat’s backside with one good smack, and only around half an inch thick, but zebrawood is surprisingly hard and dense when compared to other hardwoods, and Maria knows that this toy packs a pretty serious wallop. She rubs it in a slow circle against Natasha’s hot skin, knowing the wood feels cool. A tiny shiver trembles through her lover’s body. Maria doesn’t know whether it’s nerves or anticipation, but takes it as a good sign either way. She draws the paddle back and swings it with most of her strength, which may not be much compared to Hawkeye’s or the Black Widow’s, but which she’d put up against any other highly-trained, unaltered human being any day of the week. The paddle’s sound is different from the leather; a short, sharp POP. Natasha gasps a little, and pulls harder against Clint’s hold on her. Maria huffs out a relieved breath. At least she’s beginning to have some kind of actual effect. Setting her jaw in determination, she brings the paddle down again, and again. The smooth skin and sleek muscle of Natasha’s backside contracts and ripples under its unforgiving blows. Her breathing starts to become a little ragged, and Maria hears her curse softly after a particularly hard stroke. Relief and terror clash inside her, churning in her stomach and stabbing deep into her heart.

 

Oh, she’d known that getting involved with someone like Natasha Romanoff would come with a lot of baggage. How could it not? The Red Room had trained her to kill, taught her not to feel. And she had been a good pupil. For a while. Maria can hardly imagine what an astonishingly, blindingly  _ good _ person the young Natalia Romanova might have grown up to be if those fickers had left her alone, because even after all they did to her, she still retained enough decency and conscience to find the courage to break away from them and throw herself on the mercy of the good guys, even knowing they’d planned to kill her. She’d  _ known _ all of it. Hell, she wasn’t without baggage of her own. Who was, especially people with lives like theirs?

 

The kink, when Natasha had introduced her to the various aspects of BDSM’s alternative lifestyle, had fit Maria like a glove. They’d discovered that they took turns with various aspects of it just fine, but that more often, Nat liked letting Maria call the shots in bed, because it allowed her to relax and not worry about making decisions. Maria, on the other hand, hadn’t struggled and fought and clawed her way up the ranks in the military and then in SHIELD because she thrived on being particularly submissive. She  _ liked _ being in charge. And had found it immensely flattering that the Black Widow trusted her enough to let her be. But until the day Nat had, in not so many words, let her know that sometimes, that some _ day _ she was going to need more, it had only been for fun. And made for amazing sex. 

 

This though...this is heart-wrenching and terrifying and gut-churning in almost the same way watching Tony carry that nuke that had been about to snuff out every life in New York City through that wormhole and then...not come back. Not as all the Chitauri fell lifeless. Not as the wormhole started to close. And then, when he finally had, it had become quickly apparent that he wasn’t flying but  _ falling. _ This was like watching that had been, except Natasha has asked Maria to throw her through the wormhole. And to catch her when she falls, and bring her back safe to earth. 

 

The paddle does it’s job. It’s shocking strokes do more than bite at flesh. It’s density imparts a startling echo deeper down, wearing away at stubborn resistance. Nat’s breathing has grown harsher in her throat. She flinches a little, struggling against Clint’s steady, inexorable hold on her wrists. Maria judges it time to step up to the final stage. If she doesn’t, the paddle will reach a point of diminishing return, numbing the skin to the point where Nat won’t feel much anymore. She drops it on the couch and plucks up the slender polyurethane rod. Clint flashes her a smile that seems almost proud, and it surprises her that it matters so much to her. Then again, maybe it’s not so surprising. Hawkeye has long been and always will be one of the most important people in Natasha’s life.

 

The light, flexible rod is amazingly effective. It’s bite belies its slim, light weight. It’s impact leaves behind neat, twin, tramline welts that rise up almost instantly following each stroke. Natasha lets out a soft cry for the first time. She’s almost there. As she carefully lines up and lays down the next stroke, and the next, she hears Clint murmuring softly to Nat in Russian. Maria has only been studying the language for a short time, for Nat’s sake, but she picks up the gist of what he’s saying.  _ You’re safe. Let go. _

 

The cane bites into the soft skin at the tops of Nat’s thighs and a low, broken sound spills from her throat. Maria’s heart clenches at the sound, but steels herself and forces herself to continue. Another stroke, then another and another. Natasha shudders. Silently, her shoulders start to shake. Maria lashes the slender tool across raw, nearly brutalized skin. A keening wail that sounds more animal than human is torn from her lover amid gasping, ragged, sobbing breaths. 

 

“Enough,” says Clint softly. His iron grip on Nat’s wrists releases as Maria lets the cane clatter to the floor. Together, they ease Natasha over the back of the sofa and lay her down on her side atop the soft cushions. Clint scoots back out of the way, resting a hand on his friend’s leg so Maria can take her place at Nat’s head. Her fingers tremble a little as she brushes damp, tangled red curls back from her lover’s face, pressing a gentle kiss to Nat’s sweaty brow.

 

“I love you so much,” whispers Maria, her fingertips gentle on Natasha’s face. “God, you’re so fucking brave. I’m sorry, Nat...I’m so sorry you have to carry so much pain…”

 

Natasha curls an arm around Maria’s neck, pulling her close. Her lips taste of salt when they kiss.

 

“Not alone though,” she responds, her voice thick and raw and a little choked, but her smile (even if it’s a little watery and wobbly), is one of her rare, open and genuine smiles. “L...love you too.”

 

Clint rises smoothly to his feet, patting Natasha softly on the leg.

 

“Looks like me job here is done. Thanks for dinner. Nat, catch you for training...when you’re up to it,” he adds the last with a wink. Natasha glares at him without rancor.

 

“I’ll kick...your ass...anytime, Barton,” she says, though the threat lacks a little of her usual confidence and she winces and sticks her tongue out at him when he pats her again...this time on her ass.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says comfortably. Maria reaches out to him as he heads towards the door. He takes her proffered hand and squeezes warmly.

 

“Clint...thank you,” she says softly. He smiles.

 

“Anytime. But I think you got this from now on. I’m glad she found you.” Then he turns and slips almost silently from their quarters, the door hissing shut behind him. 

 

Maria leans back down to Natasha and carefully gathers her into her arms. As she stands, carrying the other woman as she’d cradle a child, Nat struggles a little and bats at her somewhat ineffectively.

 

“Ria, put me down...I can  _ walk, _ ” she says irritably, but her words lack bite, and she sounds tired.

 

“I really don’t think you want me to pick that cane up again. Let me do this,”

 

Nat sighs, but she lays her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder and lets Maria carry her to their bedroom. Natasha hisses in pain and rolls quickly onto her side when Maria lays her down gently, muttering under her breath as her lover gently pulls up the covers and tucks them around her.

 

“Just rest,” murmurs Maria tenderly, carding her fingers through Nat’s hair softly. “I’m going to get you something to drink and a snack.”

 

“I don’t need this, Ria,” mutters Natasha, sounding discomfited and a little grumpy.

 

“Maybe you don’t,” Maria replies over her shoulder, “but I do, so just humor me, okay?”

 

“Whatever,” sighs Natasha, but she snuggles down into the pillows and her eyes drift closed as Maria leaves the bedroom. She snags a bottle of water from the fridge and a banana, then returns quickly to find Nat in the same position. Her nose is still a little red, her eyelids a little swollen, but the expression on her face is more peaceful than Maria has seen it in some time. Natasha drinks the water gratefully, but wrinkles her nose at the banana.

 

“I’m really not hungry,” she says. Maria insists, even going so far as to peel it for her, which strikes Natasha as amusing enough that she eats most of it without too much protest. As she does, Maria fetches a cool, damp washcloth from the bathroom, then slides into bed with her lover after stripping off her blouse and slacks. 

 

“You’re not very good at this aftercare thing, are you,” Maria chides gently as she softly brushes the cool cloth over Nat’s heated face. Natasha frowns.

 

“Probably because I’ve always offered to kick anybody’s ass that tried it,” she admits, the corner of her mouth quirking a little as she closes her eyes and lets Maria tend her.

 

“Well, you’re just going to have to get used to it. I want to be able to give you whatever you need, Nat. But that goes both ways, and I need to take care of you when what you need it as intense as this was.”

 

“Maybe I can get used to it,” Natasha sighs contentedly, endorphins making her feel languid and pleasant as the pain fades, the coolness on her face soothing, and even reluctantly admitting to herself (though not out loud) that Maria had been right about the banana. As Maria helps her out of the rest of her clothes, she wriggles helpfully and turns to face her lover.

 

“You’re better now?” Maria’s eyes search Nat’s, concern and love evident in her gaze.

 

“Mm,” purrs Natasha, leaning into her embrace. “Let me show you….”


End file.
